


Un costume gris

by Vegan_Venom



Series: A Rainbow of Discarded Clothes [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, M/M, Racism, Semi-Public Sex, Suit Porn, Trans Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-24 23:49:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9792581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vegan_Venom/pseuds/Vegan_Venom
Summary: Grantaire brings lunch to his boyfriend's office. How else is he going to get him in a suit?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jehnt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehnt/gifts).



> jehnt said _"next time, bb, E can wear the suit and be the uncomfortable and hesitant one."_ How's this?

“I’m sorry monsieur, but Madame LeClair is too busy to take your call right now.”

“I understand, but that’s also what I’ve been told every time I’ve called for the past three days. Please let Madame LeClair know that Enjolras needs to speak with her urgently regarding the family from Iraq who-“

“Yes monsieur, as I told you yesterday, I will ask her to call you back. Thank you and have a good day.”

It’s clearly a dismissal, and Enjolras won’t be able to push any harder without breaking his civility. “Thank you. And to you.” 

Enjolras slams the phone back onto his desk, and then slams his head onto it for good measure. He keeps his forehead pressed against the cool wood, trying to alleviate his headache. This must have been the hundredth phone call he’s made to local and national officials in the past few days, but despite the compelling evidence that these people will probably be _killed_ if the French government goes ahead with deporting them, he can’t get anyone interested in the case beyond meaningless platitudes. Their legal case fell through, and now all Enjolras can do is hope he can stir the humanity of someone high-ranking enough that they will intervene.

The phone starts ringing, and Enjolras feels a swell of hope before realising that the ringtone is for an internal call. He sighs and considers not answering, but he’s already been taking up enough of his firm’s time with matters which are technically not their business anymore. 

“Hello?” he answers, and reaches for his mug. He brings it to his lips and then notices that it’s empty and cold. This is really not a good day.

“Hi, Monsieur Enjolras. It’s Marie from Security here. There’s a man here who claims he has a package for you. A Monsieur Grantaire. Do you know him?”

Enjolras is surprised – Grantaire has never visited him at work before. He hopes that everything is okay.

“I do. Send him up, please. Thank you, Marie.”

“No problem. Have a good day.”

Enjolras sighs, and wonders whether he has time to make a coffee before his boyfriend gets to his office. In the end he spends too much time worrying about what could be wrong with Grantaire, and only succeeds in pacing across his carpet several times.

Grantaire opens his door without knocking, despite there being no windows to show that he wasn’t busy. Grantaire quite likes shunning social niceties that way. Enjolras steps forward and greets him with kisses to his cheeks, which seems to amuse Grantaire.  
“Don’t want to kiss your boyfriend where anyone could see?” he taunts. “I thought you were out.”

Enjolras huffs and closes the door behind Grantaire. “I am, but I’m at work. This is a place for being professional, not romantic.”

Grantaire looks as though he is about to argue, but stops himself, an awkward smile appearing on his face instead. “So, I brought you lunch,” he says, and holds out a thin carrier bag containing takeaway boxes.

Enjolras takes the offering, but is confused. “I thought Security said you had a package for me. Did you leave it somewhere?”

“No package. Just lunch,” he answers, and tries to deflect Enjolras’ line of thinking. “I hope Thai was okay. It’s from that new vegetarian place on the Rue de Charenton.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras replies reflexively. “But why did Security stop you if you didn’t have a suspicious package? They let Gillenormand’s string of girlfriends bring lunch in for him all the time, and last month a random admirer with a massive bouquet of flowers delivered them to Florin’s office without being stopped.”

Grantaire laughs, his grin crooked, and waves his hands to indicate himself. “Why do you think?”

“This is outrageous!” Enjolras lets the carrier bag fall the short distance to the floor so he can better gesticulate. “This firm is supposed to be working against all kinds of discrimination, and it turns out that our own personnel are practicing racial profiling right here in our building!”

“Jeez, calm down,” Grantaire says. “This Marie was just doing her job. She saw a scruffy brown guy with unidentified takeaway claiming to be your boyfriend, and of course assumed I was a possible terrorist. A perfectly logical assumption.”

“It’s unacceptable!” Enjolras declares, ignoring Grantaire’s sarcasm, and moves around him to the door, determined to shout at _someone_ over this. Grantaire stops him with an arm round his shoulders.

“It’s not worth it. And more than that, I don’t have the energy to be dragged into this right now. You ever try getting through an airport whilst trans _and_ of Tunisian descent, you build up a tolerance for this kind of thing.”

“You shouldn’t _need_ to have a tolerance,” Enjolras tells him, earnest.

“Thank you, mon ange. But as much as I love the smouldering, righteous look on you, I didn’t come to provoke it. You’ve been too stressed recently.”

Enjolras deflates. He really wants to call out Security for their racism, but he won’t go against Grantaire’s wishes. Not whilst he’s still in the building, anyway.

“Right, the lunch, thank you, R. It really was considerate of you, since I probably wouldn’t have had time to get anything myself.”

“No, you wouldn’t have _made_ time,” Grantaire corrects. “You need a break, and I’m here to make sure you take one.”

Enjolras frowns. “It really was great of you to bring food, but I don’t have time to eat it with you, sorry. There’s so much I need to do. I have to contact-“

“Shut up,” Grantaire interrupts, and moves forward into Enjolras’ space as if to kiss him. Enjolras, very conscious of being _at work_ , retreats, and is quickly backed up against his desk.

“Grant _aire_ ,” he admonishes. “Not here.”

Grantaire smirks, predatory. “Yes, here. Where else am I going to get you in this suit?”

“I’ll be in it when I get home,” he answers, but Grantaire laughs at him, smoothing down the lapels of Enjolras’ dark grey suit jacket.

“That’s a lie, and you know it. Every time you get home in that fine-ass suit and I try to start something, you make me wait until you’ve changed or stripped out of it completely. It’s just not fair,” he whines, stepping forward again until their legs are touching. Enjolras can feel the heat from Grantaire’s body, and his own is beginning to respond predictably. Still, he’s at _work_. This will have to wait until later.

“You know why that is, R. Dressed like this I’m emblematic of the system, even if I’m working against it from inside. Wearing a suit gives me unreasonable power, and I don’t want to make light of that, even if you do find it sexy, I’m sorry.”

“Did you not consider,” Grantaire asks, his warm hands finding their way inside Enjolras’ jacket to caress his chest through the white cotton shirt, “That the man in the suit might not be the one with the power?” Grantaire pinches a nipple, and Enjolras’ hips jerk forward involuntarily. “What if I took you apart right now, huh? An oppressed minority fucking a privileged boy in a suit. What’s that emblematic of?”

Enjolras gasps at the imagery, wishing desperately that they were at home and not in his goddamn office. His hands go up to Grantaire’s shoulders as if to push him away, but his body is not obeying. “R, we can’t do this here,” he protests, even as he allows Grantaire to push the suit jacket off his shoulders onto the desk behind him.

“If you really want me to stop, I will,” Grantaire tells him. “But all I’m hearing is that social norms dictate we shouldn’t be doing this here. And are you going to obey them blindly, Enjolras?”

Grantaire sheds his hoodie, and Enjolras is lost for a few seconds in admiring his boyfriend’s biceps as he always does when he gets a chance, a chaotic mess of ivy, Arabic script and demon-like figures curling around his arms. Grantaire flexes those muscles by lifting Enjolras without effort and setting him down on the edge of the desk. Grantaire remains standing between Enjolras’ parted legs, their heights much closer now. Using a grip on Enjolras’ expensive red tie, Grantaire tugs him forward into a kiss, and Enjolras melts into it, forgetting where he is for a moment. The stress of his week starts to unravel under the ministrations of Grantaire’s clever tongue, and he moans, tangling his hands in long dark hair.

Grantaire moves his kisses down Enjolras’ clean-shaven jaw line, and Enjolras enjoys the scrape of stubble against his cheek, remembering how proud Grantaire had been when he started growing facial hair a couple of years ago. Enjolras tilts his head, offering up his neck. Grantaire wastes no time in kissing and nipping at the skin there, and yanks open Enjolras’ top button so that he can pull the white collar aside and suck a bruise into the skin where it can be covered.

“R!” Enjolras moans, and grabs at his boyfriend’s ass, pulling him closer. Enjolras’ clothed erection brushes up against the hard front of Grantaire’s jeans, and Enjolras gasps at the thought that Grantaire must have planned this, if he’s wearing a hard strap-on instead of a soft packer. 

Enjolras is fiddling with Grantaire’s belt buckle when the muffled sound of voices outside the room startles him. Enjolras freezes, and then pushes Grantaire away. They are both silent for a moment, assessing where the voices are in relation to the office, whether there’s likely to be a knock. And by the gods, Enjolras _hopes_ they have better manners than Grantaire and remember to knock. His office door doesn’t have a lock. 

After a few seconds, the voices move away, along with the clatter of high heels, and Enjolras lets out a breath. He jumps down from his perch on the desk, refastens his top button, and begins to readjust his tie, but Grantaire steps forward to stop him, calloused fingers covering his. “R, no more,” he says, and pulls his hands out of the grip. “I already let this go too far.”

Grantaire doesn’t move back, and continues smirking. “I think you didn’t let it go far enough.” He moves one step closer, and with the desk at Enjolras’ back the fronts of their bodies are completely pressed together. “Nobody’s gonna come in. Let me help you de-stress a little, okay?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to object but no sound comes out. Grantaire’s body is warm, and it’s sending a flush all over his body. He’s sure his whole face is pink. Enjolras looks around at his office, trying to remind himself of why they shouldn’t do this, so he can argue with all his other senses which are telling him to just _submit_.

Whilst he’s been warring with himself, Grantaire has undone Enjolras’ top button again, along with the next few buttons down on his shirt, and pulled his tie to hang loose around his neck like a schoolboy’s. Grantaire tugs at the white shirt to untuck it from his trousers, and Enjolras still does not manage to raise any objections when warm hands slide under and smooth over the skin of his stomach, then his back, then slide down to grope his trouser-clad behind.

“Trousers this tight should be against the dress code when you have an ass like that,” Grantaire comments, and squeezes. 

This is where Enjolras should reply, should remind him that a dress code means he’s _at work_ , but he says nothing as Grantaire unbuckles his belt, says nothing as Grantaire pulls down the zipper on the front of his dark grey trousers, and says nothing as Grantaire draws his cock out of his white boxers. Grantaire reattaches his mouth to Enjolras’ neck as he strokes the man’s erection, making Enjolras whine and arch his back, bending back against the desk. Grantaire’s body follows, covering his and pushing him back as far as Enjolras’ flexibility will allow. 

Just when Enjolras is starting to feel the heat in his gut which comes just before climax, Grantaire abruptly pulls back, the air of his office feeling cool against his flushed, exposed skin. Enjolras wants to beg him to continue, but he can’t. He shouldn’t be doing this in the first place; he’s at work; he should be telling Grantaire “no”. Enjolras stays silent, leaning against his desk and panting, his skin pink with arousal, shirt rumpled and half-undone, red tie askew, and trousers open to reveal his hard, red cock.

Grantaire stands back taking in the view, infuriatingly calm, and licks his lips. After a few more seconds of teasing, he stalks forward once again, and grabs Enjolras by the front of his shirt, pulling him upright. Then Enjolras is spun around and pushed forward to bend over his desk, several folders being knocked to the floor with a clatter in the process. Enjolras’ hips jerk forward, his bare cock pressing against smooth wood, as he realises what Grantaire plans to do.

 _’I’m at work,’_ he thinks again. _Any of my colleagues could walk in and see me like this. My boss could walk in and see me bent over my desk, getting fucked in the ass.’_ But he doesn’t say anything aloud, merely gasps when Grantaire pulls his trousers halfway down his legs, and lightly slaps his exposed rear. He hears Grantaire unzipping his own jeans, and then fumbling around for something.

“Is this okay?” Grantaire asks, and how can Enjolras reply to that? 

He wants this so badly, needs it after such a stressful morning, but he’s selfishly clinging to the fact that he never said “yes”. He never agreed to have sex in his office, which would be wholly unprofessional. It was all Grantaire’s idea. But as he thinks this Enjolras realises how unfair that is to Grantaire, who even now is asking for his explicit consent.

“Yes,” he whispers, but it is loud in the quiet room, an admission of responsibility.

Enjolras cannot see Grantaire’s reaction as his boyfriend eases a lubed finger inside him. Enjolras writhes on the desk, sending another file folder flying, its paper contents fluttering to the carpet. Grantaire adds a second finger as soon as he’s ready, which is really not that long due to the huge number of times Grantaire has fucked him in the few months of their relationship. But it’s been _days_ now, which is unacceptable. Why did Enjolras ever think that was acceptable? He _needs_ Grantaire inside him _now_ , and he’s just about to tell him so when Grantaire removes his fingers. 

Enjolras whines, and Grantaire laughs, giving his cheeks another smack. 

“The resemblance to a schoolboy really is uncanny,” Grantaire jokes, and Enjolras twists around to face him with a glare. “Alright, alright. Not appropriate. You’re a privileged rich white boy in a suit, getting it stuck to by a representative of The People. That’s accurate at least.”

Enjolras’ cheeks are burning, and he presses his forehead back against the cool surface of his desk as Grantaire’s cock finally breaches him. Enjolras bites his lip to keep from making a sound as he pushes in, and Grantaire must be doing the same, since he’s usually pretty vocal during sex. Maybe not as vocal as Enjolras himself, but that’s just embarrassing to think about. Grantaire pushes Enjolras’ shirt up his back to keep it out of the way of the lube as he starts thrusting, and Enjolras giggles, lightheaded, as he remembers that this is where the gay slur ‘shirt-lifter’ comes from. 

When Grantaire speeds up Enjolras really has trouble keeping quiet, and he brings one of his wrists to his face so he can bite down on the cuff. The desk is mostly solid but it still makes a rhythmic noise, and Enjolras really hopes it’s not audible from outside. Grantaire grabs his hips with one hand so he can thrust harder, causing Enjolras to scramble for purchase. Another folder gets knocked to the ground. 

Grantaire is grunting quietly now, but Enjolras cannot tell him to stop. If he opens his mouth now he’s going to scream. The warmth is building up in his gut again, and Enjolras pushes back against the thrusts, using his grip on the other side of the desk for leverage. His cock is trapped against the surface like this, painful, but the friction is _oh so good_ and he’s going to come. Enjolras starts to moan as he climaxes, but Grantaire’s reflexes are quick, and the sound is swiftly muffled by a firm hand over his mouth. The action is so arousing to Enjolras that he feels his orgasm dragged out, and several seconds after he shoots his load across the table he’s still being buffeted by the waves. 

Grantaire pulls out carefully, and Enjolras is vaguely aware of the wet sounds of his boyfriend finishing himself off, but he’s too blissed out to move. Some time later Grantaire cleans Enjolras up with tissues stolen from the box in the corner, and pulls his trousers back up. Grantaire gets an arm under Enjolras’ back and half-lifts him over to his desk chair, where he’s desposited like a sack of grain. He kneels down in front of him, and begins the difficult process of making Enjolras look presentable again. 

When Enjolras is all buttoned up again, his tie on straight and his hair smoothed down, Grantaire smiles at him. “Less stressed, now?” he asks.

“Definitely.” Enjolras sighs, and lets his eyes flutter closed again. He hasn’t felt even close to this relaxed all week.

“So does that mean I can eat lunch with you now?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras opens his eyes to see a cheeky smirk.

“I suppose,” he allows. 

They eat the takeout together, and nobody says anything about him taking a two-hour lunchbreak.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> I made my Grantaire trans and half-Tunisian. I'd like to think that if Enjolras and Grantaire were real, they would be campaigning to free Hélà, a trans girl in Tunisia who was arrested just for being trans and is facing a sentence in a terrible men's prison. If you're reading this before her trial on 23rd Feb 2017, please sign the petition to let her go [here](https://go.allout.org/en/a/freehela/?akid=13338.529254.7Vjkzk&rd=1&t=6&utm_campaign=freehela&utm_medium=email&utm_source=actionsuite). Thank you!!
> 
> Update 6th March: Hélà was set free, without jail time. Thank you to everyone who signed.


End file.
